


a long glance, and veins

by reciprocity



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Like... as far as James knows so, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocity/pseuds/reciprocity
Summary: After the men’s punishment onTerror, James finds sleep beyond him.





	a long glance, and veins

After the men’s punishment on _Terror_ , James finds sleep beyond him.  


He shifts and turns beneath the heavy woolen blanket covering most of his body. He had moved into the Captain’s berth a fortnight after Sir John’s death— just long enough for the sting of the man’s absence to feel less present at every moment.

At times like these, he somewhat misses his old quarters; they had been smaller, a bit cramped in truth, and James quietly longs for the comforting, cool press of his heels against the wall opposite the bed. The walls here are at least a meter from the edge of his cot— practically luxurious in comparison.

The path of his thoughts wanders in aimless, concentric circles for some minutes unchecked: from the look on the men’s faces during the lashing, to the ropes tied tautly around Mr. Hickey’s wrists, to the small pool of blood now undoubtedly scrubbed from _Terror_ ’s lower deck. Then, inevitably, to Francis’ stoic face during the preceding events.

The thought sends James into a familiar spiral of dual frustration and vague, unacknowledged hope— he can practically _see_ the figure of the man Francis _might_ be in moments such as. One capable and even well deserving of command; the type of man James could truly admire, if only he would allow himself to escape his vices and embrace his finer qualities.

James, at times, wants nothing more than to grab Francis by the lapels and straighten his spine by force. To dare him to deny his better nature.

These thoughts typically do not lead to anything constructive at all. Still, in the pitch of his own bunk and miles from sleep, James does not stop them from taking their now worryingly habitual course.

In the vision, James has Francis in the wardroom, empty save the two of them, as is often the case in reality as well these days. Francis hides nothing from him; James has never been worth the effort of his slightly gentler public demeanor. The fact of this rankles at James as much as it hearkens to some deeper, unexamined feeling in him.

The look on Francis’ face is harsh and vindictive. James is filled with the damnable need to wipe the expression from the other man’s face by any means available.

The argument between them is about nothing and everything at once— the details of it matter not, only the satisfaction of its outcome.

“If you require respect, then earn it,” this more valorous version of himself demands.

Francis scoffs and meets James’ eye defiantly. “Aye,” he answers, after a moment. “And how do you suggest I begin _earning_ such a thing, James?” This vision of Francis has not the drunken tilt of the real man, nor the slight slur to his speech. James wants Francis, entire and sober for this encounter, regardless of the likeliness of such a scenario.

“You might begin by actually _listening_ to the advice of those around you. Perhaps beginning with your second, unless you insist upon failing the same basic duties your predecessor had done.”

James, in the privacy of his own head, is bolder by a hundredfold than his waking self might ever be.

Francis looks taken aback for a moment; and then, a smirk twists at his lips. “Want me wrapped around your little finger like the rest of the Admiralty, do you, James?”

James, in the quiet of his bunk, feels the slightest tightening of muscles in his lower stomach. He shifts the blanket a bit off of himself, allowing his warming skin to be cooled by the chill air of Erebus’ hold.

The vision stutters momentarily, James taking a moment to lick at his chapped lips, and then resumes.

Francis has moved closer during their conversation— James can just make out the pale eyelashes surrounding Francis’ darkened eyes. His gaze flickers between James’ own eyes, and his downturned mouth.

“It is my opinion that we might all benefit from a firmer sort of command.”

Francis’ gaze rivets somewhere below James’ neck. “Oh?” he asks, and looks back up, the blue in his eyes almost black. “Is that your opinion as a _captain_ , Fitzjames?”

The words are easy enough to conjure up in Francis’ low voice, difficult as it might be to truly imagine their coming from the captain’s lips. James is tired now, though, and fraught from the night’s events— he may have no sway over the real Francis, or in reality any aspect of his own current predicament, but he’ll be damned if he can’t give himself the comfort of control in his own fantasies.

James meets not-Francis’ eye, and lets his gaze communicate everything his real self would never be allowed.

The false sensation of Francis’ hands suddenly on his person is nearly enough on its own to bring James to contentment. They are steady and firm in a way James has not himself felt in months— years, quite possibly.

In the dream, Francis holds James with twin points of contact at each side of his waist; he pins him neatly in place with the added placement of his lips at the hinge of James’ jaw.

In bed, James groans aloud, and quickly muffles the sound with his own wrist a moment later. His other hand presses harsh to his stomach, and then lower.

“ _Francis_ ,” his phantom self gasps; it is enough for Francis to understand exactly what he needs; the press of Francis’ mouth to his own is sweet and firm, and there is no hesitation on either side to deepen the contact immediately.

James does not know what kind of kisser Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier is in actuality, but by God has he imagined and examined each and every one of the possibilities, thoroughly.

From there, the dream devolves. The specifics and logistics are beyond James’ grasp, his thoughts over preoccupied with scattered sensations: the touch of Francis’ calloused fingers running through his hair; his tongue in James’ mouth, harsh and insistent, and then tracing down the taller man’s neck one second after; one rough palm sliding up and under James’ commander’s coat and the layers beneath that, to press a hot brand against the skin at the small of his back.

James’ hand makes haste of pushing under his smallclothes and easing the ache there, and then speeding beyond.

He finds it far beyond himself to make this last tonight— instead, he urges himself quickly along, pressing breathy exhalations of his Captain’s name into the skin of his arm.

“ _James_ ,” Francis croons into his ear, intimate and achingly tender. “Go on, then.”

  


By the time James has gotten a decent amount of breath back into his lungs and the shudder in his spine has left him, the sweat has already begun to cool on his exposed skin.

He forces himself to stretch out and pull the tossed-aside blanket from the floor, tugging it over his form with slightly uneven movements. Briefly, he entertains the notion of cleaning himself up; weariness soon settles deep and heavy into his bones, and rules out the possibility.

Unconsciousness takes him quickly after that; the tension has gone, however temporarily, from his self abruptly and entire. When he dreams, he is still on _Erebus_ , but she is no longer trapped in ice, nor her sister; instead, they sail unencumbered, into open sea unknown.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading + apologies for the content but sometimes you just have to get something out of your system and there's no other way than through introspective jack off fic, yk.


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